FIRST, through some of the busiest, narrowest, noisiest, dirtiest
streets of New York City; if you have never hurried down them, you have
no idea how much that means. A ferry boat, a bit of a ride, and I was
in New York no more, but in New Jersey. The Jersey Central train stood
waiting.
"All aboard for Long Branch," shouted an official. I did not want to go
to Long Branch, but I hurried along as fast as though I did; the truth
was, I knew my stopping place was not far away from that famous spot.
In a few minutes we were off; not long before the smell of old ocean
began to steal in at the windows, and at last we caught glimpses of
beach stretching away in the distance.
Not a long ride, only a matter of a couple of hours on an express
train, despite the many stations called out: "Matawan," and "Red Bank,"
and "Little Silver," and I know not how many more. At last, "Long
Branch" and "Elberon;" then, in a few minutes more, "Ocean Grove and
Asbury Park." At this, a great company of us began to scurry around and
find our shawl straps, and lunch baskets, and what not.
I'm not going to tell you about Asbury Park; at least not much. Some
other time I may say a good deal about this pretty city by the sea, but
just now I'm anxious to tell of what happened at night. The day had
been pleasant enough; not summer, but late spring, bright and sunshiny;
we rejoiced over the thought of getting sight of the beautiful beach;
reminding each other how lovely the sea looked by moonlight.
Alas, there was no moon for us that night! At least she did not once
show her silver face; instead, the sky was black with clouds, and
the sea took on its sullen look, and roared as it lashed the shore
constantly with great angry waves. We shivered and tugged at our wraps
as the wind tried to whirl them away, and said, as we turned to go
home, how glad we were that we had no friends at sea. "The ocean looks
cruel," said Grace; "I don't like him to-night."
Then we went home to our bright room; drew the curtains, closed the
shutters, stirred the fire to a cheery blaze, and chatted and laughed
and were happy, quite shutting out the roar of the angry sea.
But he did not calm; the waves ran high, and the sullen roar kept
increasing, until, by midnight, we knew it was what seamen call a gale.
Occasionally we heard the fog bell toll out, and once more we were glad
that we had no dear ones at sea.
Somebody had, though; and while we slept quietly, knowing nothing of
it, brave men were awake and at work. A danger signal was seen just off
shore; what excitement there was! How did the men of the life-saving
crew know that they were needed? They had been disbanded for the
summer, the dangerous season being supposed to be over; and here was
blowing one of the worst storms of the winter! I don't know how they
heard the news. Their hearts waked and watched, perhaps; anyway, they
came, great stalwart men, and in a twinkling opened their boathouse,
and got out their apparatus which had been carefully put away, and
before the third signal went up through the stormy water, were ready
for action.
I don't know how they did it. At this time of which I write, they had
no regular lifeboat such as is now in use; they were not regularly
manned for work in any way. Never mind, they did it. One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven. Oh, I do not know how many people rode, some
way, over the stormy water, on a rope, and reached the shore. Drenched,
powerless, almost breathless, yet alive! Who do you think was one of
the first to arrive that night? Why, a little baby less than three
months old! What! _She_ did not cling to ropes! Oh, no. All she did
was to lie in utmost quiet in the hands of a great strong man; he was
lashed to the rope in such a way that the men on shore could pull him
in, but the baby he held in his two strong hands, as high above the
fury of the waves as the hands would reach. What if he had dropped her?
Then the sea would have swallowed her in an instant? An awful journey,
but the baby did not know it. She must have gasped a little for breath,
and she may have cried, but no one heard her; the roaring ocean took
care of that.
You don't see how she lived through it? They did not think she could;
not even the mother, when she took a second to kiss her, before she
gave her into the strong arms, thought that she should ever see her
darling again. But it was the only possible way of escape; they could
but try. So the baby rode into shore, and I think as many as a hundred
mothers stood waiting to receive her, with hot blankets enough to
smother her, and warm milk enough to drown her in; for it had gotten
abroad in some way that a baby was on board the sinking ship. If you
could have heard the shout that went up when the baby was landed in the
arms of one mother, who said, after a second of solemn hush: "Yes, she
is living!" you would have felt as though you almost knew what a life
was worth.
The next morning what a walk we had along the coast! How still the sea
lay; the waves crept up softly one after another as if so ashamed of
their last night's work that they would a little rather not be seen or
heard at all. Bits of board, and old tarred rope, and barrel staves
and seaweed lined the beach for miles, and coffee sacks by the hundred
kept washing in to shore. The vessel had been laden with coffee. People
were very busy putting the beach in order, planning how to reach the
wreck, wondering whether she could be gotten off, or would have to lie
half-buried in the sand and slowly fall to pieces. Here and there were
groups of people, listening, while one man talked excitedly; he was a
sailor and had his wonderful story to tell of danger and escape. But
the happiest man on the beach that morning was one who rubbed his hands
in actual glee, and smiling broadly on every one who came up to him,
would say in a loud, glad voice, "Yes, I lost everything I had in the
world, but my wife and children are all here; yes, baby and all!" and
then he would wipe the great tears from his eyes, and laugh so loud and
glad a laugh that all the people around would have to join it.
All his children safe! They clustered around him, several
sturdy-looking boys, and I watched them with eager interest. _Were_
they all safe? Could the father be sure? The ocean had not swallowed
them, but suppose some awful rum saloon caught them in its clutches
and drew them in and in until they went down in a storm of drunkenness
to utter ruin! What was an ocean storm to that? Pitiless ocean,
rave as it might, could not touch the soul; but the rum saloon has
power to destroy both body and soul. What joy there was over the
three-months-old baby! and yet she may live to be a drunkard's wife,
and a drunkard's mother, and to cry out in bitterness of soul because
the ocean did not swallow her that night. Isn't it strange and sad to
think of? The father thought his children safe, and yet so many oceans
of temptation lay ready to engulf them! none more bitter, more fierce,
more wide-spread in its raging, than this ocean of alcohol. Dear boys
and girls, what can we do to help save the children for their fathers?
Will you all join the life-saving crew, and work with a will, to rescue
victims from this ocean?